Optimistic Thinking Can Only Go So Far
by EmbracingYourFreak
Summary: Arthur is at wits end and is in desperate need for some happiness.


_He's laughing again._

The thought was fleeting; hardly a millisecond was put into its gathering. It was dimly there in the back of his mind, voicing itself no louder than the various other mundane observations (_Ludwig is yelling, good Lord, does that man ever stop?; Heracles is sleeping quite loudly again, perhaps he should invest in bringing some nasal strips?_) that rattled off within its confines. But as he set to investigate the uncomfortable sting in his left hand with a canted glance, Arthur knew that the raging emotion behind that seemingly innocent thought had not quelled over the years.

"England, what the hell did you _do_?" The laughter was gone from the voice; Arthur's chest twinged.

"What are you going on about?" he queried casually, carefully drawing his hand back from the gathering interest from the room in the most nondescript manner he could manage. He willed the others to ignore the evidence that said there _was_ something wrong and that he really _shouldn't_ be sitting there with such an air of nonchalance.

_Why are there only distractions when there are no convenient uses for them?_ He gave a rueful inward smile.

"England-san - your teacup -"

"Needs to be washed, I agree," Arthur drawled as he drew himself to his feet, swept the remains of the teacup (_From such a fine set, too.)_ into the palm of his right hand and made for the door of the meeting room all in a flourish of a relaxed gait and sheepish smiles. "It's simply shameful to drink from such fine china when it's in such _atrociously_ lackluster condition. Give me just a few moments and I'll have it at a _much_ more suitable appearance." With a reassuring smile and a well-hidden wince at the tiny bits of porcelain digging in to wounds (followed by an inconspicuous sweeping of the surface of the door handle with the back of a sleeve), he stepped out of the room and into the hallway.

The soft click of the door falling back into place was the cue for Arthur's body. His fingers trembled as he hurried his pace to the restrooms, his breath coming in a quickened pace that was not at all quite as calm and measured act he had displayed in the room. But the faltering of his composure was the farthest thing from Arthur's mind. Everything was playing behind his eyes rapidly (Romano not even pretending to disguise the loud scoff, the glint of alarm in Japan's eyes, Russia's morbidly fascinated smile, a look of what could be, _might be_ construed as -) and his heart was hammering in his chest and ears and _he just needed to calm down._

With a great deal of restraint did Arthur manage to keep the door on its hinges as he threw it open in his haste. Once inside, he scrambled across the tile to the nearest open stall, slammed the door shut behind him, and proceeded to retch into the waiting bowl. His stomach lurched until it had little left to offer other than the yellow film of bile and, when it couldn't bring itself to give _that_ much, he simply heaved dryly in agonizing waves until his body settled to twitching up against the adjacent wall and waited for the incessant pounding in his ears to give way. He ignored the undignified tears that trekked down his cheeks and tried his best to suppress the sobs that bubbled in his throat. He was a gentleman; displaying such pathetic emotion was beyond his status.

"Bollocks to being gentlemanly," he groaned quietly into the plastic-metal divider of the stalls. "Bollocks to... _anything_." But he couldn't fall apart in a public restroom - certainly not sprawled in front of a toilet. So Arthur grit his teeth and braced himself into a standing position with tense shoulders and a steadying, shuddering breath before flushing contents.

Only when he pulled the lever did the steady throb in his left hand make itself noticed. Arthur would have laughed had he not been so drained. The whole reason for him being in this position was the damn teacup and his foolish lack of control, after all! He shook his head and stepped out of the stall, giving a derisive snort at the scattered pieces of porcelain that lay strewn across the the floor (_In front of a bloody dustbin; how quaint?_). The damage he had initially dealt to the cup was hardly as bad as the shattered mess in front of him - he had simply broken the handle off and chipped a bit off of the brim. To know now that it was completely unsalvageable left him feeling cold and a tad more despondent than one ought to get over the loss of a dish.

But many of his reactions that day weren't ones that he considered wholly appropriate. In reality, they were entirely overdramatic and a bit too close to "mental breakdown" for Arthur's liking. His nerves had been frayed for weeks before, leaving him in the condition one could expect from a man that had been locked away in a transparent cave and left to see freedom right before his eyes, but with no means to get to it. Human interaction was painful and forced as an invisible glass box seemed to have encased his body, leaving him screaming and pleading for help from the inside while those outside simply smiled and asked about his day.

Though Arthur now found himself willing to go back to the days of secluded torture in a heartbeat - anything rather than face the _cause_ of the hell he had been forced into. Because he was in that meeting room, smiling the dazzling smile that beamed with confidence and camaraderie; the smile that exuded a happiness that bled into the flesh of the receiver, sending trills through _every fiber _of the being before lulling it into a deeply satiated calm. Arthur choked out what was between a sob and a scoff as he trudged over to the sink. It had been a while since that smile had been directed towards him.

Turning the taps with a delicate care, he tasted the waters once, twice, three times before he placed the bleeding hand beneath the steady flow with a soft hiss. He could manage physical pain. Physical pain required mere rational thought - the nervous tissue in the hand was reacting to exposure and sharp pressure. To ease the ache, one should take the offending parties from the open wound and clean the flesh thoroughly to prevent future infection. It was systematic thinking that provided little opportunity for thoughts to wander, and Arthur _loved_ it.

"So what happened back there?"

Arthur couldn't swallow the startled yelp in time. He spun around, eyes wide and hands clutching the sink so tightly behind him, _so desperately,_ that he could feel the protesting creak from the joints in his hands. His mind reeled when he took in blue, _gorgeous_ eyes that looked so fantastic even in the simple lighting (_Like an opening to a clear, open sky filled with freedom and life and love and oh, God -_)

"What do you mean?" It was ridiculous how offhanded it sounded. The blue eyes agreed.

"The whole spilling tea all over your hand and your notes because you broke your cup -leaving some nasty looking couple cuts along the way - _hiding_ your hand when I pointed it out, and then hightailing when Japan tried to put in his two cents?" A brow furrowed. "You could have just told us you were sick."

"I - what?" was the only intelligent response Arthur could muster as his hands clenched ever tighter on the _safest_ form of solidarity he could find.

"I heard you throwing up."

Arthur swallowed. "H-how long have you been in here?" He screamed inside at the tremor.

"Walked in when I heard the stall close." An idle hand fingered a loose thread dangling from the edge of a leather jacket. "You didn't let up for a while, so I made myself comfortable in the one next to you."

"Ah."

"So." A slight pause. "What's going on?"

It was in that moment that Arthur found the last shred of sanity leave him. Weeks of isolation in it's most shattering form, little sleep, and _so much pain_ had loosened his lips. It took America to nudge them open.

"What's going on? _What's going on?_ Why in _God's name_ would _you_ care?" Tears leaked unnoticed. "You're _far_ too busy _making friends_ and_ laughing_ and _smiling_ and _being so bloody happy _to even be _aware_ of my presence, aren't you?" Shoulders shook with the effort of muting sobs. "When was the last time you came looking for me for a reason outside of _diplomacy and bloody insults?_" Blood dripped from the precipice of a knuckle.

Blue eyes stared into green.

"Would you like to know what's wrong, America? Would you like to know why I haven't enjoyed a decent night's sleep in almost _one month?_ Would you like to know why I feel absolutely positive that I could stand in the midst of a_ bloody mob _and still feel so utterly, devastatingly _alone_? Why I can't speak or hear or even _breathe_ without feeling and hating the hopeless,_ stupid, ruddy ache?_"

Heavy gasps were all that filled the air. Arthur could see the jaw of the nation flex and the shoulders brace. Lips were thinned and a small, tentative nod gave the small island the affirmative.

"It's you." A small, keening sob ripped free and the smaller body shook while trying to compress more wretched sounds from mottling the air. Leather gloves squeaked as fists were formed across the room. "It's always been you."

"England -"

"_No!_" Arthur raised his gaze defiantly, his eyes igniting with anger and sadness and a hurt that couldn't possibly be fathomed by the other. "No, you don't get to tell me how to feel! You don't have the _right_ to tell me I'm acting like a bleeding _sod_ because_ I know I am, I do."_ A pause for a few desperate gasps of breath and a few more full-bodied sobs.

"England, please -"

But there was no stopping the downpour. "I know I must be the most _foolish_ man on earth to care about you so - I _know_, _I know_! And I _hate _the knowing because it only makes the truth that much more _p-painful_." The last word faltered and cracked, but he kept his gaze steady, tears and all. "Because I know that you're beautiful and wonderful and the embodiment of something that's so pure and good and _free_ and _God_ it hurts - _it tears at me every day! - _and the knowing is _there_, telling me that I'm _not_ - _never! -_" another few helpless sobs straight from the diaphragm in their distress, "as _beautiful_ or as _wonderful _or - or _bloody authentic_ _in every way!"_

"_England_ -" The growing urgency was overlooked.

"Because - because I'm me. I-I'm England, the _least-liked nation among fellow nations_ due to my constant _c-c-contradictions_." Green eyes shifted to the shattered china with a shuddering, _awful_ strangled sound whose sheer power, sheer _heaviness_, brought the older nation to his knees. "But I don't mean to be -_ don't want to be, _damn it!- but - but _I don't know what else to be. _But - but I'd do it; I'd change it all if it meant I wouldn't be so _f-fucking lo_ -"

"_Arthur_."

The words caught in the smaller nation's throat when he realized - _felt, acknowledged_ - the arms wrapped firmly around his waist, clutching him tightly to the breast of the young nation. He let out a long, hitching breath before dissolving into silent tears with trembling shoulders and leaned tentatively into the warmth that he'd always _imagined and dreamed and wanted_. A strong chin rested on the crown of his head, curling over the other in a protective embrace.

"Don't you _ever_ change, Arthur. You _are_ wonderful and you _are_ authentic and you're so, _so_ _beautiful, damn it!" _ Arthur positively quaked under the declaration. "And - _God_, Arthur, I'm so sorry for making you think anything else. I know I've never really shown anything that hinted I felt differently, but _fuck_." It was America's turn to sob. "I never wanted to see you this - this _miserable_."

Arthur made a soft whimper (that he would vehemently deny making later).

"And I - I never wanted to see you hurt. For fuck's sake, I had no _idea_ -" A long breath followed by what sounded suspiciously like an answering not-whimper to Arthur's. "I don't want you to be sad. At all. Because Arthur, I - I really -" An audible fumbling for words ensued, complete with inarticulate sounds and a frustrated growl followed with a pregnant pause. Arthur clamped his eyes shut.

"I fucking_ love you_, Arthur."

Only the sound of the still-running water echoed off the bathroom walls. Neither nation dared to speak for a long while. A tiny, almost frightened voice shattered the silence.

"Please don't be lying, Alfred. Please don't be joking."

The arms pulled the small body _closer yet _and a mouth wetted by tears pressed urgently to an ear.

"_Never_."


End file.
